


Sleazy Bar Track

by 68932



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/68932/pseuds/68932
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The underbelly of cities fascinates me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleazy Bar Track

They're in the basement of some seedy bar, the underworld hidden from those who live in the light. It's dimly lit, both to hide the identities of those within and the grime that is sure to cover every surface. Both men are chain smoking, laughing quietly at the others partaking in the bar's hospitality. Jeego bets Tengo a round of drinks he can identify more of the drunk, well dressed, men. 

 

They trade off, pointing out married CEOs drunkenly pleading with prostitutes, politicians face down at the bar, a judge trading verdicts for a wad of cash. Tengo thinks he's won the bet when he nudges Jeego and gestures at a man hidden by the shadows. Jeego had completely missed him in all the other commotion.

 

_See him? He's an assassin. Pay enough and he'll do anything._

 

Jeego snickers, but receives a sharp elbow to the side.

 

_Quiet. Look, he's got a customer._

 

He's whispering to someone they quickly recognize as the judge. A thin smile spreads over the man's face, and he grabs the judge's hand as they exit into one of the adjoining rooms.

 

_Tengo, you idiot! He wasn't a killer for hire, he was a whore._

 

Both men erupt into laughter. Tengo buys the drinks, and they slam them back. Before long they're whispering theories about the rich and foolish men, who's screwing who, who has kids with the maid, who spends more money on their whores than their wife. The drinking continues and soon they're flushed and wobbly, leaning on each other for support. Suddenly Jeego stands. He staggers, but catches himself on Tengo's shoulder. 

 

_C'mon. We're too drunk. You don't wanna end up like him, do you?_

 

He gestures at a man slumped at the bar. The barman is leaning across the counter and skillfully removing the contents of his pockets. Tengo grimaces, clear liquor burning its way down his throat. 

 

_Not like I've got anything to steal._

 

He slams the glass down on the table, startling the poor man next to him. The barkeep sends them a dirty glare, slipping his finger's from the other man's pocket. Jeego lets out a rasping laugh.

 

_Look like we've got no choice now. C'mon, lets get out of here._

 

Stumbling together, they make their way out of the bar, Tengo swearing under his breath when he scuffs his shoes on the too-small, narrow staircase. There's no need for their eyes to adjust to the light, flickering street lamps and sparse, dim stars the only casting the only light. Jeego hails a cab with a lazy hand, knocking the other man into the back when it pulls up. 

 

_Watch your head. Isn't that what they say when they arrest you?_

 

His laugh is low and raspy, long legs bending like some sort of predatory spider as he steps into the cab. The door slams, and the cab driver speeds off. Practiced silence, practiced breathing, speeding just enough to please those who frequent this place, but not enough to get caught. 

 

Tengo frowns, stares at the cabdriver's neck. Even from here he can see the hairs stand on end. The man must have grown fat and lazy on drunken, complacent businessmen and the long-nailed harpies that trail after their wallets. He smiles, low.

 

_I wouldn't know, Jeego. I've always killed them before they got the chance._

 

The other man smiles too, lazy, just a little bit too wide. The cabdriver is sweating now, five miles over the speed limit now, creeping to six, seven. God, only a few more miles now, just a few more minutes. He squeezes his eyes shut, hands shaking on the wheel, slipping, sliding, feet quivering. Which is the gas? Which is the brake? He doesn't know, doesn't care.

 

 Just a few more minutes in this shark tank, just a few more minutes.

 

Houses whizz by, stoplights blink green to red, sweats drips from his brow, landing on the steering wheel, sounding as loud as a gunshot. His foot slams on the brake, mouthing shapeless, formless words he thought he'd forgotten, praying to something he doesn't know. 

 

Voices shatter the sweaty, heavy silence. 

 

_Is this it?_

 

_This is it._

 

Drunken bodies stumble from the car, long limbs holding eachother upright. Sharp, rasping laughter echoes into the night as the two men climb precarious, conrete steps, slamming a half-broken buzzer because they're too drunk for a keycode. The door clicks - open - and slams - shut - silent. 

 

Silence.

 

The cabdriver's heart slams in his chest, rocketing _thump thump_ , knuckles gone white around the peeling leather. He opens his eyes. Hands shaking, eyes burning, he grasps the long-forgotten crucifix around his neck, gold plated edges digging into his palm. Still sweating, he kisses the cross, filthy fat breaths heaving from his mouth. Then, without ever looking back, he hits the gas, driving faster than he ever had, never stopping to notice the fat wad of bills stuck through partition. 

**Author's Note:**

> Something short. I wanted to play with dialogue formatting, still not sure if I like it.


End file.
